


Necessity

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s the faint sound of Sherlock’s feet shifting against the floor, his shoulder pushing off of the doorframe. His voice rumbles out of his chest, a cresting way that dashes over John’s consciousness. “I'm watching you sleep.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessity

**Author's Note:**

> I'm up for auction to benefit ao3! If you're interested, [bid on me here](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/scullyseviltwin).

He awakes to dusty black; John swears he can see the particles, the very atoms of the air around him, it is so still and quiet. The night diffuses the space, touching on everything to turn it delicately to shadow, obscured, not quite real. The fingers of his right hand stretch and then curl in, testing the elasticity of reality. Is this awake or is he dreaming just now?

Fingernails sink into the threads of his fitted sheet and pull, a dull sort of rasp, keratin versus cotton. He does it again, twice, twitches his eyes just as the sound terminates. Licking his lips, the left side of his mouth rubs against the pillow; the skin is chapped and it catches uncomfortably, uncomfortably enough that it sets John’s mouth into a frown as he flexes his left hand beneath his pillow.

The deepest portion of the night, and everything is shockingly still and void of light and sound but it feels as though he’s surrounded by static. It is the turning point, the cusp of the day when dawn attempts to wrap it’s delicate tendrils around the thick of dusk. There are vapors of the sandman that could pull him back to sleep or he could linger here, in the world where something has drawn his attention, has pried him from the depths of dreamlessness.

There’s nothing to be frightened of; he can sense the presence before he sees it. The hairs on the back of his neck don’t prickle to attention as they once might have; there is no sudden urge to reach into the bedside drawer and curl his fingers around the weight of his gun. Instead he presses the side of his nose into his pillow and inhales, wills the periphery of sleep to stay, remain curled around him but not overcome.

It’s better this way, it’s easier.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” John mumbles but refuses to move a centimeter. This is John’s domain and he’s far too gone to relinquish it, even to someone whose presence very nearly demands it. Though he’s awoken in the dead of the night, his body is still pliant and warm, sleep still lingers about his edges, reminding him that he’s welcome back whenever he would like.

There’s the faint sound of Sherlock’s feet shifting against the floor, his shoulder pushing off of the doorframe. His voice rumbles out of his chest, a cresting way that dashes over John’s consciousness. “Watching you sleep.”

John has come to expect things of Sherlock. He’s come to expect appendages in the crisper drawer and detritus seemingly haphazardly strewn about the flat. He is aware of Sherlock’s moods and his inability to censor his thoughts. He knows to expect that after three days without sustenance, Sherlock will delve into one of his black moods until he’d fed a fry up. John expects the controlled chaos that is Sherlock Holmes.

What he isn’t prepared for is this softer version of his flatmate, this man who hangs about in hallways as John walks away and glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. He’s no clue what to do with the lingering touches and the pitch of his voice when he speaks to John in confidence.

He doesn’t have any clue what to do with this man at quarter-speed.

John blinks and digs his toes into the mattress. “Care to explain why?” The static buzzes all around him.

Sherlock’s voice is low, sounding hidden and bundled, swathed in cotton, when he says, “No.”

John’s chest heaves with a sigh; he allows his lids to slip closed for a few, long moments. He sifts through molasses and quicksand, fighting the pull of slumber, meandering back to consciousness, his eyes fluttering slowly as he makes it back. John clings to that voice, allows it to filter through him, to settle along the base of his spine like live embers.

He’s past the point of rationalizing the way this man makes him feel, not at this hour. Now, he just allows himself to _enjoy_ it, enjoy it in the fuzzy way that he enjoys foreign films without subtitles. It’s beautiful and simple and he doesn’t question it. He may in the light of day, he may peel back the layers and examine them more closely, but for the time being, he’s comfortable with how all of this is, _as is_.

“You weren’t frightened when you awoke,” Sherlock says quietly but casually, mindful of the hour of the evening, mindful of John’s state. He takes a cautious step into the room and stops before going any further.

Head against the pillow, John shifts just so, just enough to be able to catch the angle of Sherlock’s chin, the devastating silhouette in his doorway. “No.”

“Did you know it was me?” The lilt in his voice speaks of scientific interest, but the way his hands twist in his pockets gives him away.

John sighs into the pillow as his eyes slip closed once more; this all feels a bit like a waking dream and he couldn’t pull himself from the tender warmth of the half state he’s in even if he put any effort into it. His muscles would rebel. Still, the tone of Sherlock’s voice, the mere fact that he’s admitted to watching him sleep, at rest, utterly vulnerable and unassuming, it should make him want to run and hide. It should make John want to divert whatever is about to happen with a delicate subterfuge.

This is heart-wrenchingly _intimate_.

But a very prominent part of him wants desperately to know both where this is going and where this has come from. It’s not of particularly any consequence; John knows where he stands but he’s curious now. Curious in that fuzzy, soft, giddy way that a child might be at watching the sun rise, having stayed up several hours past their bedtime. “No... well, I suppose. Who else would it be?”

“Hmm.” It’s true enough. The only likely culprit to be in his room at this hour would be the person that he shares the flat with. But it’s something more, too. Perhaps it’s overly romantic but John thinks that perhaps he’s attuned to Sherlock on a cellular level, now. Or, perhaps, that his unconscious is acutely aware of his presence even when he’s not presently focused on it.

It’s quite a nice idea, rather lovely and the doctor smiles into the pillow and stares. “Or my unconscious is aware of you, wherever you are, knows you’re not a threat.”

Sherlock chuckles, once, a low, sandy sound. “Of course I’m a threat.”

“Not to _me_ ,” John says immediately and reconsiders. “At least not in the most obvious way. In other ways entirely... perhaps.”

Sherlock takes another step into John’s room, crossing his arms over his chest as he does. He’s all inky smudges now, the muddled light from the hallway nearly leaving his outline to John’s imagination. He can just make out the cut of Sherlock’s right elbow, catches a glint of reflected light off of Sherlock’s right iris.

“I can’t sleep,” Sherlock mentions, rolling up onto the balls of his feet as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

John’s nod is hampered by the heft of the pillow, so he repeats it for good measure. There’s the delicate sound of hair pressing against cotton. “But you never sleep.”

When he settles back onto the flats of his feet, he pulls his hands from his pockets slowly. John’s eyes adjust slowly and he can make out the pale skin of Sherlock’s hands as he twists to clasp them behind his back. “I do. Not frequently.”

John grins, “Right.”

“Well,” Sherlock sighs and moves to sit on the edge of John’s bed. “A particularly awful ruse to explain why I’m lingering about in your room at this hour...” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and then open again, the perfect pace.

John’s hand slithers out to linger just next to where Sherlock’s rest on the bed. His voice wants to waver when he speaks, but he manages the syllables without so much as a shiver. “Then why _are_ you watching me sleep. You didn’t want to tell me why but... maybe it’ll help?”

Sherlock hums contentedly to himself, slides his pinky out to just graze John’s skin. “I find your presence calming. No, not calming.” His words are paced and quiet, somehow liquid smooth. “Pleasant? No, no, hmmm... necessary.” Sherlock remains looking out towards the hallways. “I find your presence... necessary.”

“Oh.” A note of wonder winds its way through the single word and it causes Sherlock to slide his pinky over John’s, link them sloppily together. When their gazes meet, Sherlock’s is soft and open and terrified.

 

“I apologize,” he says, applying a bit of pressure to John’s finger.

“For?” John rubs the side of his face deeper into his pillow.

Sherlock smiles slightly, warmly. Licks around his lips and tilts his head towards John’s body in the bed, as though it’s all so very obvious. “Watching you sleep.”

John sighs around a smile; his pillow smells like chamomile and warmth and his cheek rubs a bit into the soft material. “It’s fine.”

“It’s _odd_.” The word curls around his tongue in such a way to indicate distaste and John allows himself the brief indulgence of gazing up into his flatmate’s face. A face he’s come to know and adore, a face that’s tethered to the word _home_.

Sherlock’s face; it’s just his face.

 _His_ face.

John’s pinky presses up against Sherlock’s gently but with intent. “Hmmm, you’re never one to care about ‘odd’ now, are you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, chin dipping in resignation. His finger taps twice against John’s before pulling away entirely. John isn’t as shocked as he’d have been this afternoon to discover that he misses the warmth as soon as it’s gone. He misses Sherlock’s _skin_ , even after so brief a touch. “I suppose I’m not, no.”

John smiles tentatively and takes the lull to turn over onto his back, shifting back towards the center of the full sized mattress. “Necessary,” John says as though it’s not a question but it is, very much so. It’s a question of when and how and _how much_.

Sherlock’s gaze drifts to John’s chest and holds there, skimming from his collarbone to the waistband of his pajama bottoms and back, skipping over his face until their gazes meet once more.

“It was a rather shocking realization,” Sherlock hums quietly, his palm presses into the mattress as he leans back towards John.

Their gaze holds and shift and John feels short of breath and slightly light-headed and shimmies closer to Sherlock, his legs tangling in the sheets. “Sherlock,” his voice rumbles but then the man’s hands are wrapping around John’s bicep and tugging on him until he lies on his stomach, flat against the sheets as Sherlock swings his legs up onto the bed and blankets John with his body. The absence of John’s words say it _all_ and Sherlock’s chest comes to rest along John’s spine, his nose drawing small patterns against his left shoulder blade.

John alters his breathing, deep and even, accommodating Sherlock’s weight.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again, this time a whisper.

“Don’t be.”

Cheek against his back, Sherlock smears the words just to the right of his spine. Humid breath against still-golden skin, "It’s just... I want to _devour_ you, every last bit. Until you're the only thing inside of me, filling me up, my cells, my skin."

"Hmm," John hums.

"It's terrifying." His right hand curls around John’s bicep hard, very nearly stinging with pain.

John could deal with this all of the time, every evening. He could be smothered by this man; he could allow him to steal all of his breath. And he knows, John _knows_ that if he gave Sherlock the option he would certainly take a lot of it, he’d certainly take a whole lot but not all. Sherlock would want to but he wouldn’t take it all.

Because he’s _necessary_. “‘m not scared.” It’s barely a mumble.

“And that’s exactly why,” Sherlock whispers, the hairs on the nape of John’s neck standing to attention as the warm breath passes over. John supports his weight, doesn’t feel trapped. His fingers nearly reach around to touch more of Sherlock, to feel skin against skin. John can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if Sherlock too were shirtless.

But it’s too much, too much to think about right now, too much to hope for.

Sherlock rolls off of him, onto his left side and makes very deliberately to steal from John’s bed but a hand shoots out, wraps around his wrist and stills him. “I’m not scared. ...Sleep, however infrequently... sleep here.”

John doesn’t wait for a response but lets go of Sherlock’s wrist, shifts his skin and bones and curls his arms around his pillow once more, settles his head in and down. It’s a few long moments before the bed dips and Sherlock’s long body rests itself next to him, although near the edge as possible.

John smiles to himself and closes his eyes, the periphery of sleep fogging his consciousness until he’s once more pulled under.


End file.
